


lest the phantasm prove the mistake

by scornandivory



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, also not to like be a dick to the cannibal but hannibal is an incredibly unsexy name, hannibal lecter gets negged by his subconscious, i tried to make will sound a lil sexy saying his name and nope. impossible., i wrote hannibal having a dream conversation to justify me writing this, i wrote this for the dialogue and then added in the conntective tissue, it's so hard to tell if i'm show appropriate levels of pretentious, like on a list of names that fuck the least hannibal takes second place to like carlton or something, lmao can you tell, not proofread not beta'ed let's gooooooooooooo, or if i'm just completely up my own ass, the gore is so mild and yet i tag, the man may fuck but the name may not.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scornandivory/pseuds/scornandivory
Summary: hannibal dreams about forgiveness and will graham. post "secondo."
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	lest the phantasm prove the mistake

**Author's Note:**

> if will's out of character it's because he's an ~illusion~. if hannibal's out of character it's because i can only do so much.
> 
> this has absolutely no plot and no weight. if you go into this expecting something worthwhile then that's on you mon ami.

Hannibal is aware he is dreaming because, in order of magnitude of improbability, the sunset sweeping over the lavender fields of the Valensole Plateau provides just a bit too much illumination, the heart on the plate in front of him valiantly continues to pump out thin trickles of blood from severed aortas, and seated, across from him at a small table Hannibal vaguely recognizes from a motel room in Minnesota, is Will Graham. 

The front of Will’s button-down is soaked through with blood, making the origin of the heart somewhat less than mysterious. As he watches the slick red stain spread, Will reaches out with one arm to gesture grandly at the plate. The table is small enough that it brings his arm only a few inches away from Hannibal’s collarbone. “Since you wanted it so badly,” he says, voice full of benevolence, edged with mockery. “Dig in.”

Hannibal stares at Will, and then at his plate. “I had imagined my decision to extend to you my forgiveness would settle my mind,” he confesses. “I can see I was optimistic.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve always been a glass half full kind of guy,” Will responds. “It’s charming until you notice what’s in the glass.”

Hannibal feels his lips curl up ever so slightly as he reaches for the knife and fork settled next to the plate. It’s from the set he’d been using in Baltimore, purchased a year and a half ago. He runs his thumb over the engraving at the base of the fork’s handle before setting it and its companion against the heart. He does nothing for a moment, merely feels the pulsating heartbeat. It’s steady, if weak; nothing like the frenetic beat he had felt as he held Will against him in his kitchen all those months ago. There is a pool of blood beneath the meat that neither rises nor sinks with the beats. Hannibal can almost see himself reflected in it.

He inhales. The redolences of lavender are there, of course, though quite muted. Instead the scents that overpower him all trace back to Will: dog hair, engine grease, sweat, and the sharp tang of blood. 

“I will admit that I am curious. I am no stranger to reflecting upon myself, though I am usually my own guide. And it’s usually a journey I embark upon purposefully.”

“Think of me as the Ghost of Maiming Victims Past, here to help you reflect on your life of sin,” the phantom across from him drawls. “Where would you like to begin?”

“Surely you know that the better parts of my regrets lie with you.” Hannibal looks up from his plate to Will, who has turned to stare out into the field of purple. His silhouette is lit impossibly by the setting sun, his irises reflecting pools of light. “And now they have come to Florence with you to see me end.”

“Adding ‘regrets’ to our list of pack hunters, are you?” Will asks.

“Of course. They come together to do great and terrible violence to their victim, barring escape routes and inflicting their cruelties with precision.”

“And is that what I am to you? A pack of regrets, out for blood?” There is mirth in Will’s voice the way there is bait on a fishhook. 

“No. My ability to define what you are to me was something that only came with practice. My regrets come from the knowledge that it was something I learned too late.”

“It’s really not that hard. I was just the most interesting thing in the toybox. And the most useful.”

“At first.”

“At first?”

“Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented.” Hannibal murmurs the quote as his knife draws across the flesh of the heart. It shudders for a moment, the gouge filling with blood, before it returns to its even beating. 

Will laughs, the sound bright and echoing in the liminality of the dream, and Hannibal leans forward in his seat without conscious effort. He has thought often of Will’s mouth, especially when he laughs. Will and his mouth often seem like separate entities at odds with each other, his lips fighting against the pull into joy and sorrow as though it’s all new territory. It’s emphasized by the precise way he speaks, always intentional, every syllable carved to hide the collected accents of his childhood. The overall picture has always been surprisingly endearing; very few people communicate with the care Will does. Will shifts in his seat, angling his body towards the table, eyes resting just over Hannibal’s right shoulder. “Is that what you call this?”

“What else could I call it? I am laid bare by my infatuation with you. Am I to blame that you refuse to see it?”

“I would argue you’re exactly to blame,” Will snaps back, raising an eyebrow. The traces of amusement vanish like the illusion they were and Will adopts the familiar figure of Jack’s chastisement. “Framing someone for multiple counts of homicide is a hell of a courtship ritual. Your brand of love isn’t something I would inflict on my worst enemy.”

“I imagine that feels complicated, considering your worst enemy is me,” Hannibal says as he continues to gently separate the chambers of the heart, each gentle stroke of the knife leaving a wine-dark line in its wake. “And yet you’ve come all this way to see our courtship through. You must forgive me if I imagine my care is not altogether unrequited.”

“Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches,” Will recites as his eyes veer meaningfully towards Hannibal’s plate. A hint of his previous amusement bleeds back into his tone. “And here is my heart which beats only for you.”

The heart, now in pieces, pulses as though in agreement. 

“Of course, we both know this courtship ends in tragedy,” Will continues blithely. 

A familiar grief rises in Hannibal’s chest as he begins to dice the quarters of the heart. He unfolds it like a map and allows himself a moment to experience it fully. His eyes dampen, blurring Will and the setting sun into a single kaleidoscopic being until he blinks the tears away. “I would much prefer it did not.” 

“You would much prefer us conjoined at the cerebellum,” Will replies, light and unimpressed. “As someone who spent a not insignificant amount of time prying open the jaws of a lion, I find myself reluctant to place myself back in its maw.”

Hannibal considers his melancholy. After the first stab of it the pain dulls, like the ache of an old injury before a storm. He turns his attention back to his meal and raises the fork to his lips, the tines stained ever so slightly red. The heart tastes like the sweetness of fever and has a bitter aftertaste. He chews thoughtfully. Swallows. “You imagine my love as something with teeth, then.”

“Like a bear trap.”

“Cold, unyielding, unwilling to release its prize without great opposition,” Hannibal muses. “Do you feel trapped by my affection for you, Will?”

“As trapped as you feel by it.”

“Then our enmeshment is mutual. Equitable.” Hannibal takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. “Some might consider that a form of marriage.”

“The marriage between a mounted butterfly and an entomology pin,” Will agrees, his eyes slipping from one of Hannibal’s shoulders to the other. 

“I imagine you picture yourself as the butterfly. Tell me, Will, would it please you to know I feel pinned by you as well?”

“And now here you are, preparing to break the pin one last time.”

“Preparing to forgive it,” Hannibal corrects, “for its desire to trap me, and for the harm it has done me. I am saddened that I could not reforge it into something more worthy, but this is where the road has led us.”

“Such a pity you can only forgive me once.” Will's voice takes on a mocking glint; his lips, the beginning of a smirk. It rankles. Hannibal can feel the muscles of his shoulders begin to tense and forces them to relax. The groove of Will’s smile deepens an inch. 

Hannibal cocks his head ever so slightly. “You seem very convinced that I will not be satisfied with only the once, Will. Despite my regard for you, I have had a life before and after you. Do you think that will change with your death?” 

“I think you envy Prometheus and his eagle. How sweet it would be to carve me open and devour me every night, only to find me whole again at daybreak. An eternity of absolution.” At last, Will’s eyes find Hannibal’s. The connection is instant, and in it Hannibal can see the impossible future. A lifetime of companionship, and, equally, a lifetime of indulgence. It feels all the more beautiful for its impossibility the way all plans for a life with Will and Abigail do now. Hannibal’s breath stutters out as his chest tightens, misery returning full force. This time he has to fight it back down. It fights back—no part of him submits to an easy death. 

“Nevertheless. I cannot afford to act on fantasies any longer. We are not a pack. We are two rabid dogs circling each other, looking for an opportunity to wound. I cannot end this cycle on my own, and you refuse to. This is the only way for me to free myself, and you with me.” He bites at his meal sharply, his teeth snapping closed on the tines of the fork and sending a dull ache through his jaw. 

Will raises a hand in a flourish, the sunlight swiping across the pads of his fingers with the motion. “Will the circle be unbroken?” It was the sort of thing he would have heard in his nomadic youth, padding after his father to the odd church service and subsequent free meal, but Hannibal has no way of knowing where. Would the phrase have the lazy vowels of southern Mississippi or a hint of a Louisiana drawl? As it is, the possibilities fold over each other and Will’s voice emerges as a double stop. It rankles Hannibal further, bitterness overwhelming his palate. 

“Yes. And soon.” It comes out harsher than he intends. Even in this space with nothing to fear and no one but himself to impress, the slip in control is distasteful. 

Will only laughs again. “I have the strangest feeling that you’re going to be singularly unhappy without me, Dr. Lecter.” His smile deepens, the corners of his mouth forming into dark creases. “It’s a pleasant thought. A Pyhrric one, maybe, but we take our little victories where we must.”

“I will not be without you. I will have you in my memory palace, as I have you now,” Hannibal points out, swallowing a piece of heart. “You will accompany me for the rest of my days.”

The Will Graham in front of him scoffs. “This isn’t me. You know this isn’t me. You can’t predict me, and that means you can’t recreate me to any meaningful degree of accuracy. It’s why even here and now in a space you control completely I’m sitting across a table from you, telling you I don’t want to be with you. You know better than to recreate my acceptance, my loyalty. It would sting, wouldn’t it, to have to fall back on memories of a honey trap to be happy in your own mind? The rest of your references for me are somewhat tainted with scorn and betrayal, yours and mine alike. This is a patchwork doll threaded together with unanswered devotion and missed opportunities. You can’t even pull its strings properly.”

Hannibal swallows again, this time against the tightening of his throat. “I disagree,” he says. “I have faith in my recreation of you.”

“Well then, Doctor, let’s experiment.” Will’s face melts from smug derision to something soft and wide-eyed Hannibal remembers from his fever. He leans over the table until Hannibal can feel the warmth of his breath and his field of vision is overtaken by the blue-grey of Will’s eyes, his sooty lashes, the dark curls falling over his brow bone. Will draws in a breath that shakes slightly then sharpens into a gasp as he stares helplessly into Hannibal’s eyes. “Hannibal, I l—”

Hannibal wakes to an ache in his jaw, teeth grinding together. He forces himself to relax. As he stares at the ceiling, draining the tension from his muscles inch by inch, he listens to his own even breathing and the city beyond his walls. He hears movement from the direction of the kitchen, the sound of ice chiming against glass and smells faintly the pleasant burn of brandy. He listens for a moment as Bedelia makes herself a nightcap, considers joining her. The impulse is discarded. Bedelia is a keen observer and more than willing to use his considerations of Will Graham against him. He closes his eyes, shifting against the bed linens, and continues to breathe. Sleep does not return to him.

**Author's Note:**

> what's up the title is from emily dickinson's "we dream—it is good we are dreaming—" which you should read because it's good and short. what else do you want from poems.
> 
> hannibal quotes rimbaud at will, will quotes verlaine back at him. rimbaud and verlaine were poets in an occasionally violent romantic relationship. parallels are fun.


End file.
